


Silver Fish

by whitesheets



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Asylum, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 03:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13515282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitesheets/pseuds/whitesheets
Summary: The shoeboxes multiply, he becomes the Cardinal, and Sister Jude leaves the convent with his daughter.





	Silver Fish

**Author's Note:**

> Another writing exercise turned into a fic I actually complete. Jessica Lange's Sister Jude is just too good to stop writing fic about. Diverges from canon _2x06 The Origins of Monstrosity_ onwards. Vague cross-over with _Murder House_.
> 
> Thank you Nat, my beta who gave this thing a read even though she probably understood 10% of the entire thing. Any mistakes are mine.
> 
> Enjoy and I always love hearing your thoughts! :)

Sister Jude leaves Briarcliff on the same day he tells her to, although her plane leaves on Friday, and it is Wednesday night. He realises she is gone when she doesn’t make the nightly rounds, doesn’t stop by to bring him tea and wish him goodnight (she usually does when he stays the night), doesn’t appear in the chapel for the morning prayers.

In fact, Timothy is so distracted by her absence that he misses the plain brown envelope on the desk (her desk) until Friday morning and that plane to Pittsburgh has come and gone.

The sun melts into the horizon, swallowed by an inky sky and it is only then he finally sees the unnoticeable envelope, “Monsignor Timothy Howard” written on it, hasty, bold strokes in blue. He knows the author immediately by the sharp twin peaks of the ‘M’.

 

_Monsignor,_

(she hasn’t bothered to address his name, merely his title)

_It is with great regret that I cannot accept the position you have recommended –_

 

He folds the note without reading the rest of it.

The formality stings, slightly at first, an uncomfortable bother in his chest, and then blooms into a persistent dull twinge for the rest of the evening.

He doesn’t expect to feel so much regret – for using her moment of weakness as an excuse (it _is_ an excuse, because sending her away is as much to protect Briarcliff’s reputation, their – _his_ – dreams, as it is to give her a fresh start), his unkindness in their last moments together, and telling her to leave without seeing her go, without saying goodbye.

 

* * *

 

Sister Mary Eunice, who was once so innocent and pure, takes over as the administrator of Briarcliff with surprising ease – the girl has suddenly possessed a manner so disparate to her older self, that it makes him uncomfortable. How does a nun go from naïve and child-like, to imposing and callous within the same week?

He wonders too, at how Jude has managed to keep Briarcliff in running order, with so much madness around her, all this time. The paperwork is endless, more patients needing tending to than there are orderlies around to do the tending, and Sister Mary Eunice runs around barking orders, blowing whistles – whatever purpose Briarcliff was built on sits on his shoulders like a burden.

He remembers telling Jude a lifetime ago that they would be lighting the torch for souls lost to darkness, to help them redeem themselves through God.

_“All that we do, Sister, we do for God, for the greater good of God’s creation.”_

Now, he thinks that maybe Briarcliff has become darkness itself too, blackening Sister Mary Eunice’s pure soul, pushing Jude towards the turmoil of a past life he knows little about, protecting people like Dr. Arden…

Except, Dr. Arden isn’t a product of Briarcliff’s darkness.

Poor Shelley.

Hans Gruper’s soul is beyond salvation.

And it is _his_ fault for enabling the doctor’s actions.

Every night, Timothy prays and prays that his own soul isn’t as dark and heavy as it feels, for the strength to right his mistakes and face punishment, and for Jude to return to him.

 

* * *

 

Timothy finally understands, how weak he is when faced with the abomination within Sister Mary Eunice.

The young nun takes him against his will, pins him down to the bed with an unnatural force he cannot see, forcing her nubile flesh against his, clad in blood-red silk. He strains against the impending evidence of his weakness, his humanness, presses his eyes shut. When she rocks against him, slowly, and then violently, flashes of blonde hair creeps into the forefront of his mind, and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter to banish the image.

“Please,” he begs the Devil, begs God. “Stop this.”

It barely works. His heart races with the exertion of trying to break free from his invisible bonds and the pleasure twisting in his stomach.

“Timothy,” Sister Mary Eunice moans, lifting herself up and slamming down again on him. “You’re so hard, _Father._ Oh, you’re so ready for me, aren’t you?”

“Stop!” he protests, pointlessly, almost feels tears on his cheeks. It isn’t supposed to be like this (but what is it _supposed_ to be, then?).

She moves her hips faster, with wild abandon and his toes curl.

He can’t help it. The images break free, fluid and unstoppable like a waterfall, blonde curls, a long, elegant neck arched in pleasure, dark brown eyes, soft lips whispering “Timothy” against his neck – he explodes, hot and pulsing into her body –

“ _Timothy!”_

His eyes fly open in horror to see Sister Mary Eunice’s steely, hollow eyes staring back at him, a satisfied smirk on her pale face.

“No!” he cries, too late, having already spilled his shame. “Oh God, no.”

The nun rolls off, sighs and giggles. He feels the force around his arms and ankles release but he is too paralysed with humiliation to move. She watches him, prodding with her gaze, trying to read what he doesn’t say.

Her smile drops. Timothy shivers.

“You don’t want her. You want _me!_ I’m young and beautiful! Your old whore isn’t here to protect you!” she spits, with something like jealousy, and slides off the bed. She throws on her habit in anger, and then starts to laugh. “Oh, Father, this is truly very ironic…” she sighs in mockery.

“Stop this.”

“You know…” she makes a show of debating with herself.

He turns away.

“You are the reason she keeps a razor in her purse,” Sister Mary Eunice says, with glee.

Oh God, no, Jude.

“Oh, yes. Your weakness will be her downfall, Father.”

Sister Mary Eunice leaves the room but the resonating chill of her chuckling seeps into his bones.

 

* * *

 

Timothy dreams of being a schoolboy in a Catholic boarding school (the brightest boy in class, his headmaster used to say), dreams of catching silver fish in a stream tucked away within the woods behind the school.

He never catches any fish but he still tries anyway, until the water begins to run dry, stranding the fish on the muddy bed. They flop around, like gleaming oblong coins in the sun, and bells begin to ring from a distance.

Timothy wakes up with a slight start.

The ceiling greets him from high above with crooked shadows from a tree outside the window.

It’s a senseless dream, but his pulse is racing.

So he closes his eyes again, and takes a deep breath. His heartbeat begins to slow, lulled into the haze of sleep.

He is by the stream again.

Except, it’s deeper, wider. Schools of silver fish dart around – so many that he’s sure he will catch one.

He takes a step into the running water, his woolen socks soaked, sticking onto his skinny ankles.

Cupping his palms together, he waits for a lone fish – only as large as a ping-pong ball – to swim above his waiting hands… and then he presses his cupped palms together as fast as he can, but suddenly there’s no rock under his feet anymore.

Water rushes over his head (how is the stream so deep?), and Timothy struggles to break through the surface for air. He kicks hard, and finally feels the air on his face, sucks in deep gulping breaths, and then the current pulls him under again.

He wants to scream, but he just swallows more water and everything is so deathly quiet – as if he isn’t struggling, as if there is no water, as if he is lying in a tub, in still bathwater. Reaching the surface again, Timothy sees a woman in black standing by the stream – watching him, not a nun but pale and sombre.

He opens his mouth to scream for her help but no sound comes out.

She shakes her head, and then smiles slowly, unmoving, and he realises the woman’s dark hair is now blonde, partially covered by a veil and it is Sister Mary Eunice smiling back at him.

Timothy jolts awake again, into the darkness of his room, drenched in cold sweat.

Terrified that the Devil has infiltrated his dreams, he throws off his blanket, swings his legs off the bed and drops onto his knees. He supports himself on his elbows on the bed.

“In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit… Lord please have mercy…”

He prays, and prays until the sun rises.

 

* * *

 

On the very same day, Timothy pays a visit to Mother Claudia.

“Monsignor Howard,” she says, blandly, from behind her desk. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

He can’t imagine that she feels any sort of pleasure at all at his presence, icy blue eyes assessing him dispassionately. He tries not to squirm. Mother Claudia has always appeared to him like an all-knowing schoolmistress.

_“I hope your drive was well, Father,” the older nun says by way of greeting._

_“It was, thank you.”_

_The echoes of their steps bounce off the stone walls as they navigate the old convent building, towards the Mother Superior’s office. He hears feminine voices speaking in hushed tones before he enters the room._

_Mother Claudia moves to her chair without aplomb. “Father, I’m pleased to introduce you to Sister Jude, and Sister Catherine.”_

_“Father Howard,” the Sister Catherine says, politely, and reaches out. Her glasses perches on the narrow bridge of her nose precariously._

_“Sister Catherine,” he mirrors her firm voice and shakes her steady hand._

_“Nice to meet you, Father Howard,” Sister Jude says, but doesn’t offer a handshake. She smiles at him instead, slightly hesitant, and it surprises him at how striking she is._

_“Likewise, Sister Jude.” Instinctively, he returns her smile with a warm one._

He doesn’t remember the contents of their discussion anymore, but he remembers the curve of Sister Jude’s smile, and Mother Claudia’s knowing, wary eyes.

“I have some concerns about Sister Mary Eunice of late,” he says. “I fear she has lost her way. She is no longer the same girl we know and perhaps – perhaps the madness at Briarcliff has been too much for her.”

Mother Claudia raises her eyebrows. “Lost her way?”

He averts his eyes. “She has behaved... Sister Mary Eunice has made repeated advances which are inappropriate in nature.” More than just inappropriate, but he cannot bring himself to speak of the details, to admit he was not strong enough to resist.

“Sister Mary Eunice is a pure soul!” the older woman protests, in shock.

“Perhaps once, but she is lost now, taken against her will,” he says, knowing for sure that her purity has gone.

So has his.

“Do not place the blame of your own dalliances on another,” Mother Claudia says, sharply. The chair creaks as she pushes away from the desk. She stands at the window, watching something he cannot see. He cannot see her face as she says: “I have seen how you are with our Sisters, your _weakness…_ ”

Timothy stares at her, unprepared for the open hostility. “Mother Claudia, there must be a misunderstanding.”

“Has it?” She turns to him, her eyes are piercing, still knowing of something he does not.

Unwilling to be distracted from his original purpose, he forges on, ignoring her accusation. “I came here hoping to discuss some arrangements we could make – I fear something – something dark lives within Sister Mary. A young man recently, was brought to Briarcliff, possessed but he did not survive the exorcism.”

“And you suspect –”

“I have _seen_. I cannot explain.”

The older woman holds his gaze, mouth pressed into a thin line. She finally sighs, knowing what he has come to ask for, before he even speaks.

“When do you intend to arrange the exorcism? Is it truly necessary?”

“As soon as I have your agreement that this is the best course of action.”

Mother Claudia clasps her hands together, and he sees the veins on the back of her hand strain as she clenches them. “Of course. If what you say is true, we won’t have much time. We will pay Briarcliff a visit tomorrow.”

“We?”

“Sister Jude and I.”

Timothy doesn’t hide his surprise.

“Sister Jude will know the girl best,” she explains, mistaking his surprise for something else. “She has always been fond of her.

“Naturally,” Timothy says, quietly.

“You didn’t know Sister Jude is here, did you?” Mother Claudia says, genuinely startled.

“No, I did not.” He thinks of the note he stupidly hasn’t read, still folded in the top drawer of his desk.

“Ah.” The old nun shakes her head. “But you knew she had turned down the position in Pittsburgh, of course?”

“Yes.” He wonders if Mother Claudia knows the particulars of Sister Jude’s leaving of Briarcliff, if that is the reason for her hostility.

“We will do what we must for Sister Mary Eunice. I believe Sister Jude will agree.

“Thank you,” he says.

All he can think about is seeing Sister Jude again.

 

* * *

  

He instructs the detainment of Sister Mary Eunice – and he knows her lack of resistance (supernaturally), her tearstained face, is only a ploy to appear innocent. He has also called upon Father Malachi but the priest will only arrive the next day.

When Mother Claudia and Sister Jude arrives (he sees the approaching car from the window), he can’t stop himself from rushing to the building’s entrance, even if a Sister is already waiting at the doorstep to greet them, ready to lead both women into the darkness, because it _is_ darkness.

“Father,” the older woman says first, with a brisk nod.

“Mother Claudia, Sister Jude, I am glad you could make it.”

Sister Jude keeps a step back, as if seeking the protection of her Mother Superior against him, against Briarcliff, against all the demons she has been running from. “Monsignor Howard,” she acknowledges, without meeting his gaze. The already cold air feels even colder now.

_You are the reason she keeps a razor in her purse._

He looks to see if she has a purse with her and sees none, relief flooding his stomach.

His fingers tingle – he wants to reach out. Her face is pale against the austere darkness of her habit (she was warm, and glowing in his dreams) and she never looks at his face. The last time she truly looked at him, he sent her packing, saw her admiration (and something else, _always_ something else) for him die in her eyes.

“I shall take you to Sister Mary Eunice. I’ve had her confined until Father Malachi gets here.”

“Very well,” Mother Claudia says, uneasily.

The Mother Superior walks ahead of him, and Sister Jude’s footsteps fall into the same rhythm as his own. He steals a sideways glance at her but her gaze is fixated straight ahead and he thinks of so many moments before, when she would walk beside him, in the woods, discussing – sometimes debating – and speaking of the world, everything and nothing. They’ve walked side by side so often, that their footsteps have found a way to complement each other naturally, a pleasant, familiar staccato to his ears.

“Please lead the way, Father.”

Sister Jude pauses at her Mother Superior’s voice, waits for him to take the lead, as if she has never stepped foot into the building.

They make their way to an isolated room where the solitary confinement cells are, where a young soul struggles with the grasp of evil, evil pretending to be good. Two orderlies have been assigned to watch the nun, and they nod at Sister Jude in greeting when she approaches.

“Sister Jude, you came back!” the girl cries, mournful eyes full of tears. “Oh, Sister, please help me. I don’t know what I have done to deserve this,” she begs, straining against the leather straps binding her to the metal bed-frame. “Mother, please help me!”

Sister Jude goes to bedside, and he sees her hand hesitate a moment, before she takes Sister Mary Eunice’s hand.

“What have I done to deserve this?” she whispers, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

“You will be all right, my girl,” Sister Jude says, gently.

“No!” she cries, shaking her head like an angry child. “Nothing is all right! I am no longer…” She glances at him, face full of fear, betraying nothing of the reckless confidence she has been carrying with her before he ordered her confinement. “Sister – I must speak with you.”

“What is it, child?” Mother Claudia speaks, for the first time.

“No, I want to speak with Sister Jude.”

Timothy’s stomach churns. “I don’t think that is a good idea, considering the circumstances.”

Sister Jude looks at him. “A few moments won’t hurt.”

He thinks of Jed Potter, of dragging Sister Jude out of the room – he can almost see the anguish the possessed boy had caused his friend (are they _still_ friends?), a seed which had been planted, growing roots strong enough to shake her faith and send her into the arms of vice.

“Father,” Mother Claudia says, drawing him out of his thoughts. She is already halfway through the door, holding it open for him. He follows her outside and the door squeaks as it closes.

He stands in the corridor but watches Sister Jude and Sister Mary Eunice through the observation window of the door. The younger woman speaks through her sobs, though he cannot hear anything nor can he see Sister Jude’s face.

“I know you are worried, Father, but God will protect Sister Jude against what you fear,” Mother Claudia says, not unkindly.

Timothy keeps silent. He fears too many things nowadays.

Finally, Sister Jude stands. She gives Sister Mary Eunice a gentle pat on the hand, and turns to leave the room. He takes a step back when the door opens and Sister Jude steps out, making sure to close the door behind her.

“Well?” Mother Claudia prompts.

“I don’t believe that girl in there is well,” Sister Jude says, quietly.

“Her personality has changed drastically,” Timothy says. “I know perhaps you may not see it now… but –”

“No, I see it, Father. I –” she looks Timothy in the eye for the first time since her arrival. “I am sure of it.”

“God have mercy.” Mother Claudia makes the sign of the cross.

Sister Jude doesn’t say anything, her eyes tells him that she _knows_.

 

* * *

 

Sister Jude begins to visit Briarcliff once every fortnight.

She slips into the asylum quietly every Saturday morning, and then slips away again a few hours later, never staying beyond noon. Sometimes, she speaks to the few orderlies she knows, asking after a Sister here and there, but she spends most of her time with Sister Mary Eunice, who is no longer herself.

The younger nun doesn’t speak to anyone - and Timothy wonders if she even speaks to Sister Jude. He always makes it a point to pass by the corridor of Sister Mary Eunice’s ward when he knows the older nun is visiting, and he never hears anything, not even a murmur, but Sister Jude assures him politely after each visit that the girl is as well as she can be, given the circumstances, and he tries to believe her.

One day, instead of nodding goodbye to Sister Jude as he usually does, he asks her to accompany him on a walk around the compounds.

She tells him no, but he persists and he finds himself listening to the rhythm of their footsteps once again as they crunch through brittle leaves on the ground. It doesn’t sound the same - the momentum is off, slightly out of sync, like they are.

“What did Sister Mary say to you?” Timothy starts, hands behind his back, willing his face to be as neutral as possible. “How did you know?”

“How did I know?”

“That Sister Mary Eunice was - “ He pauses, grasping for words. “Not herself.”

Sister Jude turns to glance at him and seems to understand regardless. “She told me that you had taken her virtue,” she says.

“You didn’t believe her?” Timothy asks. They are still, and wind rustles the leaves above them, making it snow red and amber.

“You have your flaws, Monsignor, as we all do. But there are some things that I refuse to believe this man I know will ever do,” she says, measuredly.

In that simple moment, in her quiet declaration of faith in him, Timothy realises that she loves him.

 

* * *

  

A week later, Sister Mary Eunice dies but her baby lives, and the convent takes the child in. Sister Jude stops visiting Briarcliff.

Timothy has only seen the baby _once_ (a glimpse right before the Sisters take it away), although he knows, by heart, how many photographs he has of her kept in his desk. He sends a cheque every month, a generous one, and Sister Jude sends him polaroids of the blonde, curly-haired toddler, every so often. Everyone believes that the child belongs to an inmate, but he knows better.

Sister Jude knows too, but she keeps his secret, the way she has kept all his secrets (he knows), but he is weak and tired and selfish.

 _Six months old today,_ she writes, on the back of a polaroid.

 _Eating her first banana. She cannot say it right, and says ‘bananana’. Bless the child for trying,_ she writes, on another.

 _12th May, 1972_ , in blue ink, on another.

There are never any letters, and Timothy doesn’t write either, although there is always a return address enclosed.

Many times, his hand lands on the telephone’s receiver, as he is seized by a flash of intense need to reach out but his fear of rejection, fear of so many things, keeps his fingers from dialling the convent’s phone number.

He wants to tell Sister Jude that Dr. Arden has put a bullet through his head but he doesn’t. She will know, anyhow. He wants to tell her that he has a promotion that doesn’t feel quite right, wants to ask if she will come back, come with him, but he never does.

On the days he comes homes exhausted, frustrated, angry at the world, at the Vatican, at the men who can’t see the need for change and the future, he looks at the bright young face staring out at him from his collection of polaroids, and they chip away at the guilt and darkness within until he can see hope again.

 

* * *

  

The shoeboxes multiply, he becomes the Cardinal, and Sister Jude leaves the convent with his daughter.

She doesn’t tell him until he realises, on a polaroid that she sends on the first day of fall, that she is in the picture, holding a child’s drawing of what looks to be an orange cat. And he notices, most importantly of all, that she is wearing a blue dress, sitting on the steps of what looks to be a porch, hair free and golden.

In smaller penmanship that he is used to, she writes, _She wanted to take a picture, and had insisted that I was to be her subject. Oh, she also wanted to show off her drawing of Esther, our tabby_. She includes her new mailing address, in neat, capital letters, and a telephone number.

Instead of putting it in a shoebox, he buys a picture frame, and sets the polaroid on his bedside table.

Once, Timothy thinks he sees her in a crowded New York patisserie, in _that_ blue dress, – but truly, all he sees is a flash of an excruciatingly familiar pout, sculpted cheekbones and blonde hair – and when he looks again, she is nowhere to be found.

When the next polaroid comes ( _In her new skates_ ), he puts it on his refrigerator door.

He buys a camera and the first roll of film he gets developed is nothing but test-shots of random objects in his apartment, a blurry photograph of the street down his apartment and a stray, black cat.

But he picks out a single photograph, and writes, on the back, _My refrigerator._

Two weeks after he sends the photograph, he receives his response.

A polaroid of a radiant young girl of six and her breathtaking guardian. Someone else must have taken the picture. On the back, in childish handwriting;

_Mommy and me. Sincerely, Billie Dean Howard._

_P/S - Your fridge is nice. Mommy says I can invite you for dinner. Please come._

He picks up the phone and dials a number he has memorised but never used.

“ _Hello_ ,” comes through the line, and Timothy feels his chest swell with hope. He hears a little girl call out “ _Mommy_ ” in the background.

“I’ve received an invitation for dinner,” Timothy says.

She laughs.

 

* * *

 

Billie Dean Howard looks just like her mother, Timothy thinks, although her mother isn’t her _mother_. Her sculpted cheekbones, even on the face of a six-year-old, is prominent, and her eyes are a warm hazelnut.

To anyone else looking, Sister Jude - _“Just Jude, please,” she’d said -_ could have been swollen with child, could have birthed the girl herself. Heat climbs up his neck, when he remembers that single moment - fantasy - _blonde curls, a long, elegant neck arched in pleasure, dark brown eyes, soft lips whispering “Timothy” against his neck – he explodes, hot and pulsing into her body_ -

“Do you like the chicken? Mommy let me help,” Billie Dean asks proudly, interrupting his thoughts.

She doesn’t call him ‘Daddy’, or ‘Papa’, or anything else a child would use to address her father, but Jude assures him that she has always known exactly who he is. _“She knows you’ve been away, very busy, doing very important things. She knows you have never forgotten her.”_

And he knows it is Jude he must thank for protecting his child against his weakness, his cowardice, selfishness.

Timothy looks across the table at his friend and her eyes are laughing.

“Yes, I do. Very much,” Timothy says, truthfully. It is - he has never had a poor meal with Jude.

“Mommy said you would,” the girl says. The girl is clearly smitten with her mother, Mommy this and Mommy that, as if the woman before him has been Billie Dean’s entire world. It probably is, if he allows himself to be honest. Jude is the only parent the girl has ever known.

Jude smiles. He has never seen her so radiant, free from pain and suffering.

“Your Mommy is always right,” he says, smiling himself.

“Are you home now?” Billie Dean asks, again.

Timothy holds his breath, expecting fear and weakness to clutch at his throat. But it doesn’t, and his stomach is warm with hope and affection. What does he have to lose? The politics of the Vatican, and corrupt old men he will one day become?

“I would like to be.”

“Good. Can you be a Daddy now?”

Seizing his hope, he sits up and reaches across the table, covers Jude’s hand in his. She doesn’t pull away, but her the apples of her cheeks are rosy.

“I hope so.”

“Good,” Billie Dean declares, with a nod.

Jude chuckles and he thinks it is the most beautiful sound in the world.

 

_fin_

 


End file.
